


my heart is like a bomb

by beccasaur



Category: Marvel
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccasaur/pseuds/beccasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's as scared of losing her as she is of losing him. They're scared of losing each other—again. Sometimes tempers fray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is like a bomb

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #BuckyNat Week. I'm taking prompts on my Tumblr [here](http://tyrelled.tumblr.com/ask).

“What were you _thinking?_ ”

Her voice snaps out like a whip, sharp and twice as painful, barely letting him close the apartment door before she's off, temper flaring. It's only when they're alone that she lets that happen, that she relinquishes her control, and perhaps she shouldn't, but she's so angry.

At herself, not at him. Not really.

“Nat, I—”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” she interrupts, and yes, she's aware that that's what their lives are, that they could get killed almost every time that they set foot outside the house, but it doesn't matter. Not this time. James was stupid and rash, and he could have died. That's more than enough justification for this temper flare.

She's already lost him too many times to number.

She moves into the bedroom, toeing off her boots and then stripping down to her underwear; Natasha catches him looking at her wrists, red and raw from where she'd been tied, and folds her arms, tucking them out of sight, if not out of mind.

It's clinical; she's not undressing for his enjoyment.

“I'm taking a shower.” The bathroom door closed behind her before he has a chance to even open his mouth. This, too, isn't an invitation. If space is what she needs, then he'll give it to her. He might not be happy about it, but Natasha can always rely on that.

She goes through her shower routine carefully, methodically washes the dirt and grime from the warehouse from her body, the skin and blood from under her nails. Only then, when the last traces of conditioner are disappearing down the plughole, does she lean her forehead against the tiles and suck in a breath.

It hurts.

Not because her ribs are bruised – though they are – but because it was a closer call than she'd have liked. She'd have been able to get out of it herself, she always could, she wasn't some damsel in distress that needed saving by her boyfriend Captain America, but her control over the situation was slipping. And he would have gotten himself killed to save her; she doesn't need that. She doesn't want the weight of that on her shoulders.

Her wounds are real, the fear in her heart even more so, though it starts to wash away.

She wants to wash herself away.

She stays there until the water runs cold, and by the time she re-emerges, one towel around herself, drying her hair with another, James has changed out of his uniform, stored the shield and their weapons away, and is lying on the bed in sweatpants; as soon as he realises she's there, his eyes open and he sits up.

“Nat—”

She shakes her head, cutting him off again; he'll apologise, which will make her feel bad, because he was only trying to help. She didn't _need_ his help, but she knows that now. She knew it all along, actually.

It was just easier to be mad at him than accept that she'd slipped up.

“I'm sorry.” They're not words that she says often, but she means it. His gaze is disquieting, making her almost uncomfortable, before he softens, holding out his hand. It's an acceptance; they don't need to say anything more on the matter.

She's crossed to the bed before he's even finished asking her to come, letting him pull her into his arms, back against his chest. Natasha realises that her hair must be dripping water down him, but James doesn't complain. Doesn't do anything, in fact, nothing more than hold her close, warm hand rubbing her shoulder.

Eventually, his hand slides down to her wrist, fingers brushing over the red skin there, feather-light so he doesn't hurt her; Natasha looks away from the reminder of her failure, but James lifts her hand, kissing the mark, over and over, soothing any sting away.

He repeats with the other wrist and then stops, watching her until she nods permission for anything more. Sometimes she doesn't want to, but he's kissed her anger away.

James moves, then, laying her flat and settling beside her, head propped up on his hand as he smiles down at her, and it takes a moment, but when Natasha does smile, it's genuine. Small, but there. He accepts her for what she is, and she knows that—she knows that he was only looking out for her.

She would have done the same for him. She has done, in the past; if James is captured, there's nothing in the world that matters more to her than getting him back. And he does have a tendency to get himself into trouble; if he had to save her today, she's still saved him more often. Not that there's a tally.

He's as scared of losing her as she is of losing him. They're scared of losing each other—again. Sometimes tempers fray.

This time, it's the metal hand that moves over her, cupping her face and brushing his thumb over her lips. Natasha opens her mouth and sucks it in, metal tang sharp against her tongue, and she knows that he can't feel it, not in the way that he can with the other, but his gaze is intent on her mouth regardless.

He doesn't linger there, though, but slides it down over her, curling it around her knee. It's cold against her, skin still warm from the shower, but she's always liked how it feels. He knows this, of course, the bastard, and she settles her gaze on his face as his thumb rubs small circles up her thigh.

When she leans up to kiss him, he pulls away, a smirk on his face. Soon, it says, but not yet. Not until he's ready.

She could kiss him anyway. But she doesn't.

And it's not like she _means_ to whine when his hand stops moving, curled around the crease of her thigh but not slipping higher, but he chuckles all the same, cutting off her, “Shut up, James,” with his mouth over hers, tongue gently pushing its way inside.

Her hand curls around the back of his head while his pulls open the towel, sliding up over her stomach until she hisses in pain, causing him to pull back, look down at her with concern.

“Jesus, Natalia,” he murmurs at the sight of her ribs, blue and black, and it might not be the first time he's seen her bruised, but it doesn't change that it looks like it physically hurts him to see her like this.

That hurts her more than the bruising, actually.

She closes her eyes so that she doesn't have to see, and he seems to do nothing more than rest his hand on her hip for the longest moment before she feels the brush of his lips over her ribcage, just as he'd done with her wrists, soothing away the pain.

God, he's good at this. He's almost soothing away her shame, too.

 _It's not your fault_ , he tells her, and as if her body found some way of arguing back, his tongue licks over her nipple, cutting it off.

It's effective, because how can she argue when he's sucking, flesh hand coming up to cup her other breast, rolling the nipple there between finger and thumb?

It was her fault, but as he moves across to the other side, the slightest drag of his teeth, Natasha thinks that she can forget it, and move on. It happened. These things do. They both got out of there alive, the mission was completed; she'll write her report, but beyond that, there's little point in dissecting it.

Life is full of enough regrets as it is.

James is unhurried as he kisses down her body, gentle over her bruises; they have nowhere else to be, and perhaps there isn't anything more important to him than reminding her that though either of them could have gotten hurt, they hadn't. They both made it out of there intact. And she knows that he knows her, knows that she's hurting inside. He can make that a little better.

Another day, he might draw this out, tease her with kisses everywhere except where she wants him most, until she's begging and dragging him into place by his hair; today, though, he merely draws his thumb over her slit as he settles himself between her legs, following it with the flat of his tongue.

Natasha hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, hand resting on his head as he continues licking, hips arching up as he drives his tongue inside her, a breathy moan her answer. He brings his arm up to hold her hips down, cold metal on hot skin making her gasp, and she swears she can hear him chuckle.

She tugs his hair in response, and he slides a finger alongside his tongue, thrusting slowly – too slow – and curling up until she moans. It's not enough; he knows what she wants, and he bats her hand away as she slides it down to touch her clit, letting her pant desperately for another moment, fingers sharp in his hair, before he gives her what she wants, moving straight in to suck it hard.

This isn't about drawing it out for hours. It's about washing away the negativity, about reaffirming that he's here for her, just as she is for him. It's purposeful.

It's good.

He slides another finger into her, thrusting fast now, switching between teasing licks and hard sucks on her clit, and she keens, closing her eyes and blocking out everything but him, his lipstongueteeth everywhere she wants them to be. He's always been good at this.

It's just the mission weighing heavy on her shoulders, but it feels like she hasn't been this relaxed in months.

He seems to know that she's coming before she realises herself, too lost in how it feels, because his thumb strokes over her hip and his efforts become more concentrated, everything focussed on this, on freeing something inside her. She starts to arch her back and then stops, the pain in her ribs flaring from a dull ache into something she needs to listen to, but his name is lost amongst the sounds she makes. Her fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn't let up until she hisses, kissing back up her abdomen, barely there over the bruises.

She lets him pull her into his arms, lets him press his nose against her hair. He is home. Clint is home, and SHIELD is home, and Natasha belongs here more than she ever did in her past life, but James is that as well. He's a constant. Even when she's mad at him, he's a constant.

After everything they have been through, she thinks they deserve to find a home in one another.

“Better?” he murmurs, seemingly content with this.

She nods, and they'll have to have a serious talk later about acceptable risks, about what she is capable of getting out of – while knowing that each of them will still endanger their life for the other – but for now, she nods. She is not mad at him, anymore. The embarrassment is something she can deal with.

They are both alive.

“Better.”


End file.
